Authors: Stina Leicht

And Blue Skies From Pain (20 page)

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

8.77Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

“I’m so sorry. Wish there was something else I could do for you,” Liam said.
Must go. Now.

Echoes of footsteps clamoring up the stairwell spurred him into action. He was almost to the door when a group of guards tumbled out of the stairwell door with a shuddering bang-thud of steel against drywall.

“Hey! You! Stop there!”

Shoving through the heavy glass exit, Liam legged it without much hope of escape. Belfast City Hospital was across the street, and the Peelers were on the way. He almost tripped over another body sprawled just outside the building. He didn’t give it a glance but sprinted as fast as he could while shouldering the awkward and heavy cloth bag. It became quickly apparent that he should drop it if he were to make much distance. At the same time, he needed its contents if he was going to survive the cold.

He took the first opportunity to get off the Lisburn Road and made for the shadows between two university buildings. That was when his Uncle Sceolán stepped from under a nearby tree and waved him across the cement walk.

“Took you long enough to get out of there,” Sceolán said.

Liam stumbled to his uncle’s side and dropped the laundry bag. Gasping for breath, he bent over and grabbed his knees. He felt dizzy. His uncle placed a cool hand on his back, and then Queen’s grew dim. At that moment, a group of the Church’s guards rounded the building. Liam’s skin tingled more fiercely than it had outside of his dreams in a week. He held his breath and waited to see what would happen—if the sensation would grow worse with the coming of the monster or if something altogether different would happen.

Four guards ran past, never having seen him or his uncle. Liam counted five heartbeats before allowing himself to breathe.

“Thank you,” Liam whispered, breathing in great gulps of frozen air. He was warm for the moment, but he was also sweating from the run and the dread. Soon he’d be chilled. Trembling with the rush of fading adrenaline, he said, “You were—you were right.”

“Am often enough. Ask your da.” Uncle Sceolán paused and then arched his right eyebrow. “And what was it that I was right about this time?”

“Father Murray,” Liam said, sniffing and then drawing in a big breath. He held it to slow his galloping heart. When he couldn’t hold it any longer he blew the air out his cheeks. He didn’t risk speaking again until he was sure he could do so without coughing. His lungs ached. “Father Murray has been shot. I did it. Was an accident. Missed the screw I was aiming for.” He took another breath. “What if he’s dead?”
Shouldn’t have broken my word.

“We lose friends in war.”

“Stupid. Was fucking stupid. Why the fuck did I pick up that fucking gun?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Sirens echoed off the buildings and flickering lights were reflected in window glass.

“Oh, that’s just fucking grand. Peelers are here. They find me, and it won’t matter if Father Murray lives or dies.”

“All right, calm yourself.”

“I am calm.”

“You are?”

“Oh, shut your gob.”

“Is that the thanks I get for saving yourself from yourself twice in one week?”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t thank me much, either.”

“Fuck off!” Liam’s head was pounding. He wasn’t being rational, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Get the fuck away from me!”

Uncle Sceolán nodded once and then stepped back into the shadow. He was gone in a gust of wind.

“Wait!” Liam was struck with a sudden memory of the dream Oran’s words before it all had gone bad.

Better this way,
Liam thought.
Less chance of others getting hurt.

Chapter 10

Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
December 1977

S
hamed and frustrated, Liam wrapped a fist around his anger and eased farther into the shadows—away from the riot of emergency lights splashing the Uni buildings. An army helicopter was on the way. He could hear it. Heart pounding, he willed himself to fade into the background as his uncle had done, but nothing seemed to happen. He gritted his teeth and concentrated all the more. Still the tell-tale prickling on his skin that he’d come to associate with magic refused to surface.
For fuck’s sake. Why not now?

You shot Father Murray. You killed him. You killed Oran too.

No. He’s not dead. You heard him. He’s only—

Another siren approached—this time, clearly heading his direction—he panicked and hid behind a nearby tree. The siren drew louder and closer until an ambulance sped past on the Lisburn Road, heading for Belfast City Hospital. Relief poured over him, and he released the breath he’d been holding with a shiver.

Father Murray is—

Don’t. No time for that now.
Liam shoved the frenzied thoughts down deep inside before they could break him apart. Panic fought its way back up his throat, tasting of bile. He swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut and deliberately slowed his breathing.
The hole in him—

Stop it, damn you! You’ve done worse. Survive first!

Why am I the one who lives?

“I said, stop it!” The words came out in a hiss, and it surprised him.
Hold it together. Aye? Father Murray might be fine. Think about it later. Must get out of here now.
Liam waited until his heart stopped racing and held out his hand. If he squinted he could pretend he didn’t see the fingers tremble.
Right, then. What are the options?

There weren’t many. First, there was returning to West Belfast.
Not the best idea, mate.
Someone was sure to recognize him. Second, staying near Queen’s.
Forget it.
He didn’t know the Uni area. He did know Andytown and the Lower Falls—well enough to hide away for an extended time. Of course, that would mean a freezing walk through Loyalist West Belfast. Even the shortest route would mean heading into Sandy Row until he could turn west and up the Falls. If he were lucky, the UDA would be focused on other amusements. However, if he was unlucky—

Peace on Earth, good will to all men,
thought Liam, glaring northward.
Provided those men aren’t Catholic, is that not so?

Best get on with it.

There’s Great Victoria Street. That’d be considerably safer and closer than the Lower Falls, aye?
He didn’t know Great Victoria Street as well as he did the Falls but the odds of his making it through Sandy Row without being rompered were next to none.

He hefted the laundry bag and made his way north, walking on the right-hand side of the street. Like most of Belfast, Queen’s was different at this hour than it was during the day—sullen and quiet. Lamps bolted to the sides of the red brick Victorian buildings formed patches of brightness on the cement walk, and rows of black windows looked down on him from warm rooms. He attempted not to think of the cold, but the fingers of his left hand were growing stiff and painful. Pausing, he shifted the laundry bag to his right shoulder and stretched the ache from his freezing fingers inside his coat pocket.

He told himself he’d find somewhere to kip until morning. It might mean sleeping in a dustbin, provided he could find one. Since the bombing campaign dustbins were thin on the street in certain areas.

Leaving Queen’s behind, he got as far as University Road when it started to snow, and he came to the realization that he was going to freeze to death if he didn’t get to shelter soon. The wind was up, naturally, and it tore right through him. The fucking bloodstains had frozen on the thin pajama bottoms and were chafing something fierce. His legs were numb where they weren’t being rubbed raw, and his teeth clattered inside his skull. With the ice forming on the ground, he had to be careful of where he stepped in addition to being aware of the street around him. With so much depending on his ability to concentrate, he struggled against exhaustion and the numbing cold. Getting to shelter would take more time than he imagined he had. He decided to risk changing into warmer clothes. Temporarily straying from the road, he found a fairly secluded spot in an alley. Having the use of both hands made the process easier and faster. The arm was healing well. He left his torn shirt on, but the cold was shocking fierce as he struggled into jeans and a pullover sweater. By the time he had gotten to re-lacing his boots, he was shivering with so much violence that he had trouble tying the knots. The adrenaline had worn off, that was clear. He zipped his anorak and felt better at once. The walk seemed almost possible now. He crammed the ruined pajama bottoms into the laundry bag. He’d burn them later. Shouldering the bag once more, he headed back onto the street. Although he could feel some small warmth seeping into his bones, his teeth wouldn’t stop clattering. His boots crunched on Great Victoria Street’s icy pavement. Sirens echoed off the buildings, and he thought again of the ambulance.

Is Father Murray dead? Did I kill him?

Not now. Can’t. Get somewhere safe. Call St. Agnes’s tomorrow. Will know then.

He focused on the sound of his footsteps, pushing himself onward.
Left. Right. Left. Right. Left—

Shouldn’t have picked up the gun. Broke my word. Why the fuck did I pick up the fucking gun?

Better to set his mind on the tangible—like not freezing to death, or getting rompered by Loyalists, for example. Slipping through a few alleys and back gardens to avoid being seen might be more practical.
Or it could get me shot for a prowler.
He was making up his mind when he noticed the car following him.

Fucking great,
he thought.
That’s all I fucking need.

Checking the street without turning his head too much, he noted it was a green or grey Ford Cortina, probably a Mark III. It pulled up a bit more, and Liam could smell cigarette smoke coming from the car’s open window. He tensed in anticipation of trouble but kept walking. His mouth felt dry. There was nothing for it. He’d have to drop the bag and rabbit. With some luck he might even find a place to hide before they’d turned the car around to catch up. Even so, Liam knew better than to think he could outrun a car or a bullet.

“You look awfully familiar, mate,” the front passenger said, leaning out the open window. “My friend wants to know if you’re Liam Kelly?”

Liam’s heart jolted. He risked a glance at the car. There were four men in it, including the driver. All were wearing dark clothing, and he couldn’t make out their faces without stopping.

Shouldn’t have shaved the beard,
Liam thought. “Who wants to know?”

“Frankie Donovan, that’s who,” a second voice said.

Liam halted and turned. “Frankie?”

“Liam? Is that you, mate?”

The Cortina stopped, and the passenger door swung open. Chaos erupted inside the car. A passenger in the back thumped the front seat, impatient to get out. The seat folded forward in spite of the protests from the crushed front passenger. A lanky blond man emerged. He stank of beer and staggered once before halting in front of Liam. Squinting upward, he paused until the frown of concentration broke into a smile. “It is you! I haven’t seen you in a year!”

“Frankie? What the fuck are you doing here?” Liam asked. His shivering made the question hard to get out.

Frankie gave the surrounding street a quick look and then lowered his voice, “Same question could be asked of you. This is not a street you should be walking this time of night, if you’ve any thought for your health.”

“Oh. I was—I was—”

“Relocating by the looks of things. Between engagements, are you? Aye?” Frankie asked with a nod to the laundry bag on Liam’s shoulder. He winked. “Come on. Get in the car. You look a bit rough, not to mention half frozen.”

Liam swallowed. Frankie had once been a close friend, and he seemed friendly enough, but there was something different about him. He seemed calmer, more serious.
Uncomfortable?
Liam wasn’t sure if Frankie was aware of his current status with the Provos, but one thing was certain, chances were very high that Frankie was still active.

“Ah. Well, I don’t know,” Liam managed to say through chattering teeth.

Frankie frowned again.

Liam glanced at the car.
On the other hand, not accepting might not be an option.

Frankie may have had a few, but he was sober enough by his expression. He spoke carefully, his breath misting. “Don’t stand there like an idiot, man. You’ll have us all rompered if we stay here much longer. It’s in a bad way, you are. And I’ll not leave you. Go on. In with you.”

With a sigh, Liam nodded. Frankie took the laundry bag from him and opened the Cortina’s passenger door.

“Make some room, will you?” Frankie asked those inside.

An American rock band praised the qualities of a hotel in California through the Cortina’s tinny speakers.

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

8.77Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads